He's got it coming: Love is the best revenge

by Alexandra Winter

  Climb? What the hell? I’m not climbing a ski jump. Is he seriously thinking that is a good idea for a first date? Is he drunk?

  I agree with Simen’s reply.

  Wow. I couldn’t do that. Sure she’s up for it?

  No, I’m not. I’d do that any day with Isac, but I’m not risking my life with this asshole.

  Henrik’s response confirms my suspicions.

  We’ll see.

  My first date is a test. Who takes a date to climb a ski jump, and on a foggy day?

  I pack up my sneakers in a bag.

  Can I do this? Sell my soul to the devil? And will I pull it off? Am I even capable of making a man fall so deeply in love with me like I did with Isac?

  Cecilia and I agreed on ripped jeans with a flattering white top to show off my curves. I grab my trench coat from one of the boxes. On my way out, I stop by my office to remind myself of the goals for this evening—have him ask me out for a second date, and refuse the kiss he threatened to give me.

  I buy the Nero candy bar Henrik likes on the way over and park outside his apartment building. The thought of meeting him while I’m stuck sitting in the car makes me claustrophobic. I get out, my taupe heels clicking on the sidewalk while I text Henrik.

  I’m here. White Volkswagen Tiguan.

  My reflection stares back at me from the adjacent apartment building windows.

  My butt looks fantastic in these jeans. But why do I feel like a prostitute? Henrik seems to feel like some Nordic god when he cheats and fools women, while I’m stuck feeling cheap and disgusting. This isn’t fair.

  The apartment door clunks open, and my entire body shakes when I see him. I tuck both hands into my pockets to hide my reaction and try to seem as relaxed as possible.

  Henrik strolls casually towards me with his disheveled beard and man bun, and I want to get back in my car and run him over. Wearing worn jeans, a black t-shirt, and a backpack, he strikes me as trying too hard when the weather is frigid tonight, especially if he’s planning on climbing a ski jump. In these heels, I’m as tall as him and can’t wait to stomp on everything he holds dear.

  I imagine twisting a knife in his heart and leaving him to die on the street. Instead, I smile and observe his reaction. Nothing. No joy at seeing me, no frustration with my footwear, no relief. Nothing. His face is like stone, and I can’t read anything from it.

  When he’s within spitting distance, I swallow to make sure I don’t fall for the urge.

  Detecting myself frown, I imagine myself punching him in the face to force a smile now that he’s closer.

  When I think he’ll stop, he opens his arms, and it takes all the strength I have to let him hug me and sound happy and not push him over. If I had a knife, it would be stuck in his stomach.

  He smells of fresh lime and oak, reminding me of Isac, which only makes this worse. The ground turns wobbly, and I step back, leaning on a lamppost next to me.

  “Hi.” His voice is low and husky as he looks at my feet. “You’re in heels?”

  That’s right. I can’t climb any hill in these. Let’s see you improvise, you bastard. If not, I have my running shoes tucked away in the car as plan B.

  If he is panicking, he’s maintaining an unnervingly composed expression while doing so. This is bad. I wasn’t counting on him being impossible to read. Why didn’t Cecilia warn me about this? What did he ask again? Oh, yes. I hold onto the post and put my right foot forward, pointing the toe, showing my shoe off at its best angle. “Are heels bad?”

  “They’re not good for your feet, or what I had planned.” Henrik seems deep in thought, while across the street, a massive dog pees on a tree.

  My initial shock is turning into itching of my skin as if it wants to shed after hugging him. “Um…you wanted to show me something?”

  “We’ll do that next time.” He winks at me. “I have a better idea.”

  Next time. That’s a good sign. “Are we walking, or should I drive?”

  Please say drive. I need a steering wheel to clutch on to.

  He walks towards my car. “Drive.”

  I get falling for the rugged look if there’s charm connected to it, but he’s not giving me anything. It’s like he’s dead inside. What a cliché. Another average-looking guy wins over much more beautiful women.

  9

  Like a stranger giving careless instructions, Henrik guides me five minutes down the street, then points to a parking space outside the botanical gardens.

  The clock shows a quarter past eight.

  If I were arriving with Isac, my first instinct would be to comment that its café closed at eight.

  “I thought we could buy a coffee and wander through the gardens,” he says.

  And watch your stone face crack when you realize it’s closed.

  “Sure,” I say and get out.

  He thumps the car door shut, and the steel gate squeaks as he enters in front of me. “Have you been here before?”

  “No.” Which is mostly true. Isac and I jogged through the park once.

  “Good. I want to be your first.”

  Instead of acting on my instinct to roll my eyes and comment that I’m sure I’m far from his first, I laugh at Henrik. But I pretend to laugh along with him and end the whole charade in a warm smile. It works, and for the first time, his eyes light up in response to me.

  We’re surrounded by towering oaks, the leaves heavy in the moist air as we stroll up the path. I ignore the signs identifying the flowers along the trail. This garden was pretty, blooming, and colorful when I came with Isac. Now, it’s gray and sad, the flower heads are bent, and fog slithers its way between the trees. Around the corner is a small café in the middle of the garden. On the entrance door is a sign. ‘Closed.’

  Henrik stops. “Um, yes.” He’s still calm like a frozen lake.

  How are you not getting stressed by now?

  This is his second plan not working out. He must have some thoughts working on high alert, but he simply asks, “Have you been to Ekeberg Park?”

  I fight the urge to laugh. “No. I haven’t actually.”

  “Let’s try.”

  I’m glad I have access to what this guy shares with his friends because this is annoying. He’s not giving me anything to go on. Along the path, damp leaves on the trees hang as if they’ve given up on life, preparing to die.

  We get back into my car and I drive towards Ekeberg. It doesn’t matter how much I’ve studied him, I can’t read anything Henrik thinks. None of what Cecilia and I found online prepared me for his behavior. “Tell me about your last relationship.” I bite my tongue after I blurt out the question.

  Sure, let’s talk about her, which leads you to ask me about my last relationship, which I refuse to talk with you about. Shit, I have to get it together.

  “We were perfect for each other,” he says.

  I almost drive off the road. “Excuse me?”

  What the hell? You constantly cheat on a woman who’s perfect for you?

  He turns away from me, gazing out the window. “I just didn’t love her. I’ve never loved anyone. It would be nice to experience it soon.”

  Be careful what you wish for.

  I clench the steering wheel. “You wished you loved her?”

  “Yes. Helle is one of the people who has had the most influence on how I view the world, and on my life. What about you?”

  Oh no, you’re not shifting this around on me.

  “Who’s the other influencer?”

  Henrik turns towards me. “My grandmother. But she passed away. She acted like a second mother to me growing up.” He grins as if recalling funny memories but decides to keep them to himself. “Why won’t you share your greatest influence?”

  I turn up to the graveled parking lot below Ekeberg Park and its restaurant, giving us a panoramic view of Oslo harbor. “My mother, I guess.”

  Dark clouds cover the sky. Fog lingers in the air, hiding the city in a gloomy carpet of gray.

  He
pauses for a minute before exiting the car, leaving me puzzled until I recall that his mother’s a drug addict and has lived at a center since he was five, and I could kick myself. I exit, and my heels sink into the ground. This is not going well. I get my sneakers from the trunk, and Henrik laughs to himself.

  That’s right, you should have asked if I brought other shoes, but you didn’t. That’s what you get for not sharing your thoughts.

  I follow Henrik up the trail into the forest behind the restaurant but stop as I register what I’m about to do.

  Sure, head into the moonlit park with a man I’ve just met, that I know has no concern for others and takes pictures of dead people. That sounds like a great idea.

  “I don’t bite.” He holds out his hand.

  “Oh, really?” There’s no way out of it, so I take his hand and smile, but let go as soon as I pass him. A light wind rattles leaves towering over us as the forest thickens, and the scent of moist earth whisks me away for a moment to my family’s cabin in the fall, my safe haven. I inhale, allowing the security of my memories to calm me.

  On the right side of the track is a gigantic slate of stone with a 3-D face carved in its center. I walk further along, but the face appears to follow me. I step back and forth, then closer to see if the statue keeps still. It moves with me. And like me, it appears sad, desperate and cut off from the world with its hard wall around it.

  When I turn around, Henrik is laughing at me. “I like your enthusiasm. There’s another even more interactive statue over here.” He points further into the forest.

  Glad to see your stone-cold appearance is softening.

  I follow him around a collection of trees into a clearing. In the middle is a rusted steel dome rising from the ground like a colossal tortoiseshell with harsh angles. It reminds me of a container they use on ships, only this one is curved and artsy.

  Henrik waits beside the entrance while I step inside. The grass strokes my shoes and echoes whisper around me, making the hairs on my arms rise in the cold air.

  When I turn to see if Henrik’s behind me, he grabs hold of my waist, pinching me, and I jump away.

  “Boo.” His laughter mixes in with the whispering sounds as if a mob surrounds us.

  My hands shake, so I laugh along to hide the fact that I’m terrified. Knowing the deceit Henrik has committed and the picture he took, my adrenaline is already on high alert just being here with him, betraying Isac. I hate myself for it. I don’t need Henrik to scare me to further provoke it.

  Right now, Katelyn might be trying to reach Henrik, Thea might be sending him naked photos, and here he is, scaring me inside an iron-tent sculpture. He grins as he locks his eyes onto mine, taking one step closer through the shadows of the steel room, reminding me of the threat he made earlier.

  I might even kiss you.

  Hell, no.

  “It’s a bit chilly.” I head outside, leaving him behind. I follow the signs leading to a viewpoint.

  On the edge of a cliff are two benches placed close to each other overlooking the view of Oslo. Tempted to push him over, I’m pretty sure Cecilia would connect the dots if he died on our date.

  I sit to the left. Henrik walks to the bench on the right side, stacking the backpack on the seat next to him and pulls out a large flask of what looks to me like homemade juice and a pack of macadamia nuts, my favorite.

  The man’s got game, though.

  Henrik pours juice into two paper cups and hands me one. A satisfied smirk is stuck to his face, probably from countless other auspicious first dates where women swooned over him for bringing not only their favorite snack but also homemade juice.

  If it hadn’t been part of his general scheme, it would be a nice gesture. I take a sip and smile. He’s added beetroot, which I can’t stand and I struggle not to laugh. So far, I’ve managed to ruin his original plans, and now I get to sabotage this as well. “Interesting,” I say.

  The satisfied smile drops from his face. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing.” I take another sip, forcing juice down. “To me, beetroot tastes like liquid metal and ruins everything it comes in contact with. There’s something wrong in the chemistry between my taste buds and that one thing.”

  “I brought your favorite nuts too.” Knowing I’ve already seen them, he seemingly needs to emphasize he’s done something right, handing me the bag.

  I put the cup down and pour out a handful of nuts before giving them back. “Thanks.” I get out the chocolate from my bag and hand it over to him. “Your favorite, right?”

  His eyes shoot up. “This is a first.” He grins as he opens the paper and takes a bite.

  Making you eat poison would be so easy.

  He lifts the cuffs of his jeans. “Socks approved?”

  I nod, not caring one bit what they look like, but I smile to keep up appearances. “Washing machine. From one to three, where one is your favorite and three never gets done. Place in your preferred order: Start a wash, hang clothes to dry, fold clothes when dry.”

  He laughs. “In the order you said them.”

  “Then we’re doomed.” I laugh along.

  “Doomed?”

  “We’d never have clothes in our closet if we lived together. I’m like you. They stay on the clothing rack until I’ve worn them.”

  Henrik turns towards me. “If that’s our biggest issue, I suggest we plan our second date right away. How about a cinnamon swirl in the park tomorrow?”

  “Let’s end this date first, then we’ll see,” I add with a wink, and hate myself for it as Henrik smiles in response.

  Are you still thinking about that kiss?

  “How long have you lived in Oslo?”

  I turn my gaze out on the sparkling city below us.

  Do I have any chance of getting caught in a lie?

  Thinking about who I know could reveal that I’ve lived here my entire life, I quickly conclude that there’s no way he’ll find out. He’ll never meet anyone I know, especially not old friends or family. But I need a number that’s easy to remember. Isac and I moved into our current apartment three years ago, so that’s my hook.

  “Three years. What about you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  In my peripheral view, he’s looking my way. I take advantage of the situation to deflect questions about me. “What about your parents? Do they live here too?”

  Let’s see how much you’re willing to share about your family situation.

  His leg twitches, which catches my attention since he’s been sitting still the whole time. “My mother died when I was five, and my dad still lives in my hometown.”

  Is this a play to gain sympathy?

  Until this point, he’s remained calm like a mirrored lake. But since the mention of his mother, his leg won’t stop moving.

  “You don’t like talking about your mother, do you?” I point to his leg. “It’s revealing your discomfort.”

  He laughs, and the leg stops. “If anything, it’s my father I’m reacting to. He used to work on a fishing boat on the small island I’m from outside Bodø. When my mother passed away, he stopped working.”

  I’m dying to ask him why he lies about his mother, but scared to reveal what I know, I leave it. “What made you move?”

  “My father struggled, so I couldn’t leave him, but my brother and his wife persuaded me to get a new start to life. Not very interesting.”

  “To me it is. Do you visit your brother often?”

  “I travel to Bergen a lot for work, but I hardly ever go back home.” He sips his juice, then explains. “Driving from Bergen to Bodø is about twenty hours, followed by a ferry out to the island.”

  Isac used to travel a lot too, but he was from Oslo, so he never had to worry about going home to visit relatives on top of that.

  “I’m sorry about your mother.”

  Please tell me all about her.

  “I don’t remember her.” He looks out onto the city below us. “I’m more interested in you
r story. What about your family?”

  Oh, no. You’re not getting off this subject that fast. Why the hell are you lying about your mother?

  “Parents still married, two brothers also married with kids.” I reach for more nuts to avoid elaborating. “Was your relationship with your father close?”

  He answers without looking at me. “He’s done the best he can.”

  “So, a no then?”

  His leg twitches again, but this time he stops it and shifts his weight to the other leg. “He lost the love of his life when my mother died, and never got over that.”

  I know how devastating that feels.

  I look away and blink back tears as he continues.

  “I don’t know. He was only nineteen when he had me, and she died five years later. I think he…” He pauses, as if not wanting to continue, but does anyway. “My father is complex. To drown out the noise of missing my mother, he made sure to always have other women catering to his needs.”

  Like father, like son.

  “What do you mean, catering to his needs?” I try to ask the question as casually as I can.

  His eyebrow raises, and the way he looks at me says it all. His father used women just like Henrik does, perhaps even worse.

  “Let’s just say he never stopped searching for a woman to replace my mother.”

  I can’t tell him she’s alive. That will make me appear utterly nuts for stalking him before our first date. I mean, there’s googling the guy to confirm he’s not a criminal, which he is, then there’s hacking him.

  It’s easy to see that he’s reacting when his leg twitches, but I wish I could read more body language because he talks about his family as if he’s telling me the weather forecast for tomorrow.

  He moves from his bench over to mine. I give him room, which he takes and positions himself so close that I feel his body heat. “What about you?”